the puddles are small frozen ponds

in the dirt street

our obstinate sycamore stands leaning

against the prevalent winds

mercifully absent today

Belle the Cat sits at the door

her breath fogging the glass

nothing moves outside

all is still, still still

for me

black coffee and christmas cookies

while the house sleeps

i do not fret or think about death so much

it will likely be like this

but i won’t be there

Copyright Michael Douglas Scott